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Adventures in Ireland, Part II: From Enniskillen to Westport
By Anne Thell (guide trixie000)
 This September, I went on a whirlwind trip to Ireland for 9 days of adventure. I began my journey in bustling and colorful Dublin, and from there made my way up the eastern coast to Downpatrick in County Down; next I shot through the midlands to Eniskillen on Lough Erne, subsequently winding down the western coast to Westport, Leenane, and Galway, and finally departing from Shannon. The stops along the way were packed with unexpected adventures and spectacular beauty, each connected by the stream of long, narrow roads and sweeping vistas sliding past my window.
You can get more details on my Irish escapades in my journal, Ireland—From Dublin to Limerick. You can also read about the first part of my journey, Adventures in Ireland, Part I: From Dublin to Downpatrick. Come back next week for the final installment.
DAY FOUR
I shot out of Downpatrick, two hours north of Dublin, and jumped back onto the M1, flying along at a good clip towards Enniskillen, a river town in the west. Up until now, I had assumed that my unusually high speedometer readings meant my dial was in kilometers—however, sailing along, listening to some David Bowie, with the cool morning air rushing through my open windows . . . I gave the speedometer a closer look, and . . . whoa! realized it was actually in miles. Hmm. Apparently I had been driving the Focus at something nearing the speed of light. At least I was making good time!
The scenery evened out (quickly!) in the midlands, transforming from the steep hills of County Down into scattered, rolling green hills. As I neared Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh, the hills grew more dramatic once again, cliffs appeared, and expanses of lakes were visible in patches through the trees. I entered colorful Enniskillen and walked around a bit. Situated on an island between Lower and Upper Lough Erne, on the Erne Waterway, the town was founded 600 years ago by a dynasty of Gaelic Maguire chieftains. The center consists of nothing more than a small fork of hillside roads overlooking the river; I found the city had an abundance of shops and pubs, appropriately kilted students just let out from school, and a lively atmosphere.
I set forth towards my evening’s abode, Erincurrach Cruising, just a couple miles outside of town on the A46, where guests have the option of staying in commodious cottages or—get this—luxury cruisers! I, being a true skipper at heart, obviously opted for the boat, and promptly loaded my accoutrements onto a mini-yacht moored in their harbor. My particular cruiser was surprisingly spacious, with two bathrooms, two sleeping areas, a main room, a kitchen, and enough seating for a small cocktail party. Sleeping on my ark that night was a strange experience, mind you; while the rocking was quite relaxing, it was somewhat akin to being stranded inside a snow-globe. I did fall solidly asleep after awhile, however, and awoke the next morning to sun pouring through the openings in my cabin window curtains.
DAY FIVE
I had a quick breakfast (with enough vitamin C to ward off scurvy) on the boat, a shower in the complex’s new bathrooms (they were larger and fancier than my diminutive quarters), and headed out in my cruiser for a tour of Lough Erne with a member of the Erincurrach Cruising team, an affable fellow named Andy who knew every aspect of the lake. Thanks to him, I gleaned more information than I had ever hoped to know about the area: the uneven shape of the islands here, for example, is due to the course taken by an Ice Age glacier. Their distinctive forms make them ideal navigational markers.
Quickly recognizing that I harbored the skills of an expert navigator, Andy let me steer the vessel almost immediately. (Did I mention I’d never driven a boat before?) I, meanwhile, expertly cut a course through the dark and placid waters. I have to admit, though, it was pretty easy—a mere toddler could have manipulated the wheel as satisfactorily as this Siren nua. There’s no fear of getting lost, either, as a proliferation of numbered flags protrude from the water like a United Nations’ salute, making it extremely easy to find one’s way.
We disembarked once to check out some Celtic ruins—many clusters stud the lakeside’s shores—and then stopped in at Devenish, a monastic settlement where the remains of an Augustan abbey and 12th-century Celtic graveyard lie behind a perfectly intact crayon-shaped tower. We clambered over just about everything, even up the miniscule stairs to the abbey’s second floor; it was a gay old time, indeed.
After Devenish, I maneuvered the boat through the locks near Enniskillen—receiving nary a scratch on her fiberglass surface, take note—and drove my floating abode safely back into the Erincurrach harbor, where my efforts were rewarded with a waterway chart and captain’s handbook (which I’m still trying to find a use for in New York—the Hudson looks promising).
I departed by land soon thereafter for Sligo city, southwest of Enniskillen, and traversed a small slice of Co. Donegal en-route that, of anywhere in Ireland, seemed the most likely frolicking grounds of the country’s mythical leprechauns. The surrounding mountainsides were covered with green, green glens that descended into mystical, mist-covered lakes—I’m certain I saw fairies flitting about, and I know that I sat down to a delightful lunch of four-leaf clovers with a spritely pair that lived under a bed of moss.
My one stop before reaching Sligo was the Horse Holiday Farm, an equestrian center and house perched above the Atlantic Ocean, with Ben Bulben looming behind it (that bald mountain of Yeatsian fame). The view of the ocean from the house was so stunning, I was compelled to prance through the living room and execute a perfect swan dive out of the large bay window. Instead, I got back into my little car—a shame, really, since I’d been told that the un-guided horseback treks offered here make one feel completely alone in the countryside (but don’t fret, help is only a cell phone call away).
I motored on to Sligo, Co. Sligo, a pleasant, bustling, and brightly painted city reminiscent of a fishing village, and then 15-minutes or so further to Drumcliff, the final resting place of the poet WB Yeats. Yeats’ family history here dates back to the beginning of the 19th century, when his great-grandfather, John Yeats, was the town rector. WB wasn’t actually interred here until after the war, in 1948, and his grave was a bit disconcerting—the tomb of one of the world’s most talented and beloved poets seems now to be a stop on the tour bus circuit. Accordingly, I arrived to find a line of blue-haired septuagenarians in crinkly windbreakers waiting to take a picture of his tombstone, which reads: “Cast a cold Eye / On Life, on Death. / Horseman, pass by!”
I obliged by beating a hasty retreat to Ballina, Co. Mayo, a friendly, vibrant place—much like Enniskillen, actually, but a bit smaller—and the Ceide Fields, a vast and hauntingly beautiful expanse of rust-colored rocks and wild grasses. Right before descending into Westport, I passed an enormous, misty lake that perfectly reflected the green and lichen-covered cliffs behind it. The western roads were all watched-over by a sentry of sheep—the type with skinny black legs that look like they’re wearing a large white overcoat—that milled about the main road in groups, pairs, and alone . . . immeasurably content with themselves and the world.
Dusk was falling as I found a B&B on the edge of town. The city was just starting to light up, restaurants were busy, pubs were beginning to swell with customers, and the river was casting up its last reflections of the fading sky. It was truly a lovely evening.
I ended my day with a standard Irish dinner of bacon and cabbage at the riverside Olde Railway Hotel, where I relaxed with a Guinness (or two) by the fire. As I made my way back to the B&B through the evening mist, I felt as though I were walking into another dimension—the night was almost completely silent, the air chilly and damp, and the gloom broken up only sporadically by the flash of car headlights and occasional bestial exclamations.
DAY SIX
I awoke to my birthday—a positive sign, I think, to be somewhere unexpected for a birthday—and sat down to that delicious Irish soda bread once again. As I stuffed myself with the tasty manna, I reflected that the year had somehow culminated in my finding myself here—in this Irish house with a lavish 60s-style dining room and a woman murmuring on the telephone behind me—with the open road beckoning ahead.
Onwards and upwards, however. Next stop: Leenane, Killary Lodge. (No idea what they have in store for me there . . . the only word mentioned was "adventure.")
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